


A Life of Style

by TEP Redux (tepredux)



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepredux/pseuds/TEP%20Redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years of marriage and more than a decade together, Stan and Kyle begin to uncover cracks in the foundation of their lives when faced with the stressful realities of young adulthood. Will our heroes be stuck in the ruts of the tangled webs they've woven, or will love win out for South Park's original OTP?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kyle - In Media Res

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> I am so happy you have stumbled upon my new multi-chapter story, A Life of Style. Yes, that is an awful pun, and no—I am not sorry for it. I’m not sure how often I’ll be updating, but I’m hoping to keep it at two weeks between chapters (max) because these chapters will be (I think) relatively short. The story will be told from Kyle’s and Stan’s perspectives in an alternating pattern (Ch. 1 - Kyle, Ch. 2 - Stan, Ch. 3 - Kyle, etc.), and the narrative will be largely linear, though some of the chapters will prominently feature flashbacks for the sake of providing backstory.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story. It’s not the happiest one at the outset, but it’s one I’ve wanted to write since my return to fanfiction: my version of the old school South Park OTP: Style.
> 
> Happy readings!  
> TEPR

It’s a familiar feeling: his cock in my ass; the way he gently tugs on the back of my hair when he gets a bit too worked up; his sheepish slinking back after he’s come and, guided by his sense of decorum, doesn’t want to sound too sloppy when he pulls out. This is what it feels like to be desired, and for better or for worse, I think I’m finally getting used to feeling this way with someone other than Stan.

“Thanks, baby. That was really good,” Chad says, hopping off the bed and looking for his boxers.

“Don’t call me that,” I growl, rolling over to face him. “That’s not what this is.”

“So I can fuck you,” he says, leaning over to kiss me, “and I can kiss you, but I can’t call you ‘baby?’”

“Precisely,” I say, standing and leaning against the wall after I kiss him back.

I have to give him credit: Chad is much less dense than the average propulsion engineer. Don’t get me wrong—rocket scientists are smart, but I’ve found that many of them lack basic levels of common sense. That was my initial assumption about Chad when I met him at work last year. He was the first friend I met in Huntsville, and I never would have imagined that it would turn into something sexual, especially not while I was still married— _am_ still married—to Stan.

Before you get the wrong idea, I should tell you that this isn’t your run-of-the-mill, fall-in-love-with-another-man-and-leave-your-husband affair. My feelings for Chad are purely carnal. And it’s not even that I find him irresistibly sexy because I don’t; his looks are average at best. In that regard, he’s nothing compared to Stan, with his piercing blue eyes, easily flushed cheeks, and adorable smile. But Chad is a change, and change is what I think I need right now. I still love Stan, and I love the life we’re building together, but it’s not everything I ever wanted, and I’ve just recently started to realize that. Admittedly, this is shitty timing on my part.

It was only a year and a half ago that I convinced Stan to uproot from our charming home in the Denver suburbs and move to Ala-fucking-bama. I had a promising job waiting for me here, and because of the cheaper cost of living, we would pretty much make bank by relocating to the South, even if it took Stan some time to find work. Thankfully, it didn’t, though.

We moved just after the school year ended, right after Stan got tenure with Denver Public Schools, and he was less than thrilled about leaving the city that we, as a couple, had grown to know as home and where he had begun to build a solid career. A couple of weeks after we settled in Huntsville, though, he saw a posting for a job in his field, teaching middle school history at a prestigious local private school. The administration liked that he wasn’t from the South and could bring in an outside perspective. To the delight of both of us, he got the job and couldn’t be happier. In addition to teaching, he’s also the boys’ soccer coach, and his schedule has been busier than usual as the school year winds to a close. His weekday evenings are often occupied by practices and games, causing him to spend all weekend grading. If I was in a different place, I’d tell him how unfair it is that the school hasn’t hired an assistant coach yet or that he should take a breath and slow things down, that the head of school loves him and he doesn’t have to worry about job security for next year. But that’s not where I am. Instead, I am here, expelling Chad’s semen from my ass and wishing I had a drink.

“How about we grab a drink?” Chad asks me through the bathroom door. I will not allow myself to get so comfortable with this man that I’ll let him see me on the toilet, not even after he’s fucked me dozens of times. For the sake of Stan and everything else, that just can’t happen.

“A little early, don’t you think?” I ask, half-scoffing and slipping my clothes back on. “Isn’t your lunch hour almost over, anyway?”

“Oh, come on, Kyle. It’s Friday. You know McGregor doesn’t give a shit. Besides, I’m not going to see you for an entire week.”

I flush and step outside. “That is correct,” I say, walking past him to the door. “Because _I_ am taking a trip for spring break with _my_ _husband_.”

Chad always hates this part, the part when I leave his house. A part of me feels bad for him. He’s nearly thirty and just realized last year, after a string of horrible relationships with women during and after college, that he’s gay. And I’m apparently the first guy he’s been seriously into. Even worse, I’m beginning to think he might be in love with me. Christ.

“Don’t go,” he says softly, placing his hand over the doorframe to block me. “Please. Not yet. I’ll miss you.”

“You really should be getting back to work, Chad.” I stare at him icily. “Don’t take your job for granted.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines. “Don’t do this again.”

I suppose I should confess that my affair with Chad isn’t the only thing I’m keeping from Stan. I have been out of work for just more than three months now, and my husband’s none the wiser. I know that’s shitty, but it’s reached a point now that there’s no way I can tell him. What do you say in this situation? _Oh, sorry, I meant to tell you ninety-seven days ago—but who’s counting?—but it slipped my mind until now_. I don’t think so. And before you judge me, try putting yourself in my shoes. Have you ever been laid off from an awesome job with a great salary and benefits package? Have you ever gone from being the primary breadwinner to immensely thankful that you’ve been saving money judiciously? No. No, you haven’t. So you can’t judge me.

Sorry. That was rude, and presumptive. Maybe you have been in my shoes, in which case you understand how much this fucking sucks. Maybe you also understand how hard it is to tell your partner when this bad news lands at your doorstep, how badly you want to but how you find yourself unable to find the words to express everything it is you want to say. Maybe you understand that the day you get laid off—excuse me, the day your company “is forced to reconcile the gloomy forecast for the upcoming fiscal year and, as a result, must cut back accordingly”—is two days before your husband hits the road for a weekend soccer tournament, and only a week and a half before his formal semesterly review by the head of school, so telling him this evening doesn’t seem like the best option because you know how excited and stressed and jittery he can be in times like this, and you don’t want to upset the delicate balance. You know this because you’ve been married to him for three years, though you’ve been a couple for twelve (but who’s counting?) and he’s been your soulmate for as long as you can remember. Maybe you understand that the best option in this situation, when faced with news of your impending unemployment, is to keep it buried inside, to put a smile on your face when your beaming husband tells you about how great his fifth period class was today and how he feels like he’s making a real difference in the life of one of the players on his eighth grade team. I guarantee that you would feel as conflicted and sick to your stomach as I do every moment of every day that I keep this secret from him, knowing that one day he’ll find out and that the longer it takes, the larger and more unpredictable the eruption will be.

But perhaps you also understand that in situations like this, you need a friend, someone in whom you can confide, or else you risk going crazy. And perhaps you understand how, given the right circumstances—too much stress, too many mojitos—this friendship could one night slip into something more, something more dangerous, and once it’s started, you are unable to locate your best instincts, and you have no idea how to stop it. Perhaps if you understand all of that, you can understand who I am and how I got here.

Which reminds me—I’ve been so rude. I should introduce myself. My name is Kyle. I’m an unemployed software engineer, I’m twenty-seven years old, and I haven’t had sex with my husband in over a month.


	2. Stan - Fourteen

It’s like he’s avoiding me lately, and I can’t figure out why. You think you have someone figured out, and then all of a sudden—poof—you’re wrong. He used to listen to me, as if clinging onto every word, but nowadays he looks like he doesn’t give a shit. I don’t know why it’s bothering me; I mean, I should care, but should I really care this much? I guess you could say I’ve “taken an interest” or that I have a soft spot for him. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, and if students ever ask me, I deny it—unspoken teacher rule #17—but it’s true. Teaching middle school the last four years has taught me that kids are just like adults: some of them you like, and some of them you don’t. In Jackson’s case, I like him very much. He’s the kind of fourteen year-old I could definitely see myself being friends with if I was his age, or he was mine. Maybe he’s just going through some shit. I remember how awful it was being fourteen.

That’s the age I realized I wanted Kyle as more than a friend. He was my best friend, and I loved him like a brother, but it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something that I knew couldn’t be normal. Sometimes he would do things that made feel funny, things that never bothered before—like laughing really hard at something funny I said, or leaning back in a chair and stretching so that a little bit of his belly showed, or sitting so close to me on the bus that our thighs touched, or falling asleep on top of my bed after playing video games all night. I liked that last one a lot, and whenever it happened, I’d just sit there and watch him sleep, not sure of what I wanted but knowing that whatever it was, I wanted Kyle to be there for all of it. I didn’t realize that what I wanted was sexual until one night in ninth grade when we both fell asleep watching a movie on my bed. I woke up when he accidentally rolled onto me in the night. Something stabbed my leg, and when I looked down, I could see from the glow of the TV that it was his erection. I felt sick but successfully fought the urge to vomit. That’s when I knew I wanted more.

I knew that if anyone would understand, it would be Wendy. When I realized in seventh grade that I didn’t really like her “in that way” anymore, I asked if we could just be friends. She was pissed at first and wanted to know if I was seeing other girls. When I convinced her that I didn’t want a girlfriend anymore, she was fine, and we became even better friends than we were before. Kyle was still my best friend, but she was my number two. Normally I would go to Kyle with shit like this, but since he was—well, involved—I knew I had to talk to Wendy about it. The first thing she did was laugh at me.

“What do you mean, you’re in love with Kyle? Stanley, there’s no way that’s possible.” When she saw that I was on the verge of a puking panic attack, her eyes went wide.

“Oh, you’re serious? I’m sorry, Stan. I thought you were joking. It’s okay if you’re gay,” she said as she hugged me. “You know that I still love you, and so will everyone else—including Kyle.”

That thought made me woozy but also happy, and hopeful. But then I panicked. _No—I’m not gay_ , I thought. _I can’t be gay. I like girls!_ I closed my eyes and thought of everything I could to make the gay go away. I thought of Wendy’s boobs, Bebe’s boobs, Annie’s boobs, Cartman’s boobs—ohmygodwhatthefuck, no!—Red’s boobs. _Yeah, Red will work_. I imagined taking her up to my room, us slipping off our shirts and crawling into bed. But then I looked up, and it wasn’t her red hair I was seeing but Kyle’s, and we were both shirtless, and he smiled at me, and I smiled at him, and he leaned in for a kiss, and—

That’s when I collapsed into Wendy and started crying. She told me that I should tell Kyle, that even if he didn’t feel the same way that he would understand, and that for the sake of our friendship, I should be honest with him. It took me a couple of weeks to work up the nerve. The night I decided to test the waters, I was staying the night at his house. That way, I figured that if it went bad, I could get the hell out of there and be alone for a while.

“Kyle, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” I said as we played video games, trying to be casual but nervous as hell. “Don’t freak out when I tell you, and please don’t be mad at me.” I could feel my ears beginning to sting. Whenever I get nervous or embarrassed, they go from pale white to burning red in no time. Kyle must have noticed.

“What is it, dude?” he asked, pausing the game and putting down his controller. Fuck, I had his undivided attention. That freaked me out even more.

“I, umm—” But that’s all I got out before I felt it start to come up. I ran to his bathroom as quickly as possible and hurled into the toilet. He followed and shut the door behind us.

“Dude, is everything okay?” he asked once I stopped. I wiped my face and took a swig of the mouthwash in the cabinet. (This wasn’t the first time I’d puked at Kyle’s.) I started to speak but was interrupted by his mother.

“Is everything all right, _bubby_?” she asked through the door.

“Yeah, Stan’s just feeling a little sick,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’re fine.”

When she was gone, I plopped down on the floor a few feet away and just looked at him. Those few seconds felt like a year.

“What’s going on, Stan?” he finally asked, concerned.

I don’t know where it came from—maybe from Wendy’s words of support a few weeks before—but I just said it.

“Kyle, I really like you.”

First he smiled, but then I felt my ears turning red, and that’s when he realized that I didn’t mean it in the normal way. Suddenly he looked confused and then worried.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice cracking like pane glass. “I like you, too. You’re my best friend.”

I wanted to say more, to explain myself and have it all out in the open, but all of a sudden, I couldn’t do it, so I just scooted closer to him on the floor. He usually didn’t mind when I put my head on his shoulder, but he jerked away a little when I did it this time. He had never flinched that way before, so I pulled back.

“No, don’t,” he said quickly. “Well, actually, yeah. But only for now. Let’s get out of the bathroom.”

Back in his room, he patted the carpet beside him at the foot of the bed. After a minute of us sitting there awkwardly, he reached over and grabbed my hand, and I almost puked again right there. My ears were on fire.

“Kyle, are you, umm—?” It was not easy to make words happen at that moment.

“I don’t know,” he shot back, a little panicked and a little excited and a little terrified. “I don’t know what I am, Stan, but I know I really like you, too, okay?”

When I looked at him, I saw that he was the one who was scared now, and I understood exactly how he felt. A part of me wanted to kiss him that night, but I didn’t. We just sat there mostly and talked some. It took forever for us to go to sleep, and that was okay.

Each of us spent the last couple of months of freshman year figuring out what we wanted. I don’t know who figured it out first, but I was surprised when Kyle made the first move. We had just gotten to my empty house after walking home on the last day of the school year. As I was getting ready to drop my bag, he said my name, and when I turned to look at him, he attacked me with a kiss. I kissed him back, and I think we both thought it would last forever.

When he pulled away to breathe, I grabbed him in a hug. It was the start of my first—and to this day, longest—relationship. Just like that, Kyle was my boyfriend. My _boyfriend_. Holy shit!

“Your ears are burning,” he whispered, looking all goofy as he kissed me again.

“Yeah,” I murmured, embarrassed but also thrilled. In that moment I didn’t care that I’d never met anyone else whose ears changed colors. I was overjoyed because I had Kyle, and that was all that mattered.

That entire summer was amazing. It didn’t take us long to realize that we were in love, even if we didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time. We loved each other, and we didn’t understand how we hadn’t figured it out before, and we knew that there’s no way we would ever be not in love with each other again because being anything else seemed completely fucking insane. We came out to our parents not long after sophomore year started. My folks were cool, even though my dad tried a little _too_ hard to show his support. (You know how he can be.) I was worried that Kyle’s mom would be a bitch about it, but she wasn’t at all. I mean, I don’t think his parents were super thrilled, but they’re practical people and figured they would probably still end up with grandkids. School was… well, school. It kinda sucked, but then again, it always sucked. We stopped hanging around Fat Ass because he doesn’t really like gay people, but Kenny was cool; we mostly just hung out with him and Wendy in high school. The four of us even double-dated to prom. It was pretty sweet.

Things were so different then. Life was so much easier. I don’t know what it is, but something just feels different between me and Kyle now. I’m really looking forward to next week. I’ve spent so much time wrapped up in work lately that I feel like I’ve been giving Kyle the shaft—and not in the way he likes. Today’s a good example: I can’t stop thinking about Jackson and how weird he’s been lately in class and on the field. He’s been acting like a little shit, and I don’t know if it’s just his age or his hormones or maybe I’ve done something to offend him or what, but it sucks. He’s one of my favorite students and one of the only reasons I enjoy fourth period—or as I like to refer to them behind closed doors, the midday hell spawn.

Damnit—there I go again. No more talk about school. The week is over, and I am turning off my teacher brain until a week from Sunday. Starting tomorrow, I have an entire week of nothing but my sexy husband and spring break in sunny Pensacola. It’s a cliché, I know, but we haven’t been to the beach in years, and I’m kind of stoked, to be honest. Also, it seems like forever since we’ve had sex—I feel kinda shitty about that for burying myself in work—but I’m going to make it better this week. Everything will be better after this week. I know it will.


	3. Kyle - Options

I rub it into him gently because I know he is sensitive; the last thing I want to do is hurt him.

“Can you get my shoulders a little more, babe? They’re still really sore.” He looks back at me from his chair as I stand and rub aloe vera gel on his sunburned back. He smiles and leans into me. I close my eyes and return his kiss, meeting him jab for sensuous jab until he sloppily breaks away. “I love you, Kyle,” he says before settling back into the chair and leaning forward.

“I love you, too, Stan.” Because I genuinely mean this, I feel better than I have in several weeks. I _do_ love Stan. I love the way his eyes get really big when he’s excited to tell me something. I love the way he sometimes just collapses on top of me after a long day. I love how soft his hair is and how scratchy his face gets when he skips a day shaving. I love the definition in his arms and legs and the way the little hairs stick to his skin after he comes home from practice. I love the way he lights up when I surprise him with a home-cooked dinner; he clearly appreciates it and loves me for loving him so much. I love the way he insists that sometimes he make dinner, that it isn’t fair that I have to cook every night just because my company has been experimenting with telecommuting and allowing me to work from home most days. I love that he doesn’t suspect that I’m cheating on him or lying about my employment status.

In case you’re wondering, Pensacola was a little surreal. We got back late last night so that we could have an entire day to regroup before returning to the real world on Monday. Just like the trip, today has so far been dually haunted by the specter of our former uncomplicated bliss and the awkwardness that continues to bubble under the surface as a result of my ongoing secret tryst with Chad. The entire week at the beach was like living in a time capsule. I was 15, 18, 23 all over again. Everything was fresh and vibrant and seemingly perfect. I was reminded of all the reasons I love Stan and all the ways that I’m one of the luckiest guys in the whole fucking world. At the same time, I knew then—like I know now—that our marriage is not perfect. These days, a lot of that is my fault, and I mostly regard myself as a shit for it. Interestingly, the longer my sexcapades with Chad go on, the easier it becomes to envision a world where Stan does not occupy the center of my universe. It’s like the longer I allow myself to drift away from the security blanket that is our marriage, the less implausible the idea of divorce becomes. I used to be frightened by the idea of losing Stan, like I would be nothing without him, but now I’m beginning to think about the world more in terms of options, and Stan is just one of many options. The trouble is that right now I have lots of options on the table, and I’m not entirely sure how many of them I can realistically have at once. Admittedly, I’m being very selfish about all of this.

The whole reason we moved to Alabama was because of _my_ work, and I would feel really guilty about asking Stan to reevaluate things a year after dragging him here kicking and screaming. On the other hand, he _really_ likes Bennington Academy, and even though they keep him really busy and he had to take a pay cut when we moved, I think he’s had a much better experience here than he did in Denver. He seems particularly fond of one of his students; I think he feels like he’s making a real difference in the kid’s life, which is awesome, since Stan seemed to be getting a little burned out at the public school where he was in Colorado.

It’s so hard to tell what’s fair and right anymore. Everything used to seem so simple. We were in school, and I was with Stan, and we were in love. We went to college together, and we were in love. We moved in together (of course) after graduation and started our lives together and got married, and we were in love. And now I don’t know what to think anymore. There are moments when everything is just as amazing as it was before. When I look up from a book, and he looks up from his grading, and we see each other through our glasses of wine and over the empty noise of the room—when we really see each other—it’s amazing. The smallest things can take my breath away, like when he surprises me in the shower in the morning before either of us can fully comprehend what the day will become; or when I am spurred, as if by a mighty wind, to wrap my arms around him when he’s washing lettuce or doing laundry or making himself a vodka tonic, and I realize with startling clarity that I am still very much in love with him and always have been; or when he scratches his head while brushing his teeth with the other hand, and his hair gets ruffled right before he goes to bed, just like it has for the last nine years that we have lived together, and probably long before that. These are things that give me hope and life and strength and make me want to grab his face and shout how much I love him.

But the longer things go on, the more fleeting these moments become. Every once in a while, this realization makes me want to scream or cry or break something, and that’s how I know that this marriage can still be saved. How I get from here to where I need to go, though, is something that I cannot figure out, and the one person who could help me make sense of it all, my best friend in the world, is the one person I can’t bring myself to tell because I’m afraid that if he knew who I really was and what I’d done, he’d never forgive me, and I’d be lost forever.

Of course, Stan is only the largest problem on plate currently. Obviously, looking for work hasn’t been easy. There may be a lot of software jobs in Huntsville, but there are apparently even more unemployed programmers running around looking for work. To keep myself sane, I’ve adopted a routine. I wake up early to run a mile before sunrise, just like I did when we lived in Denver. Then, once Stan’s gone, I try to put in at least three applications each day and follow up on any promising leads. (Usually, there are none.) To reduce risk of stir-craziness, I’ve started volunteering with the neighborhood HOA. For those of you unaccustomed to the whitewashed sameness of suburbia, a homeowners association (HOA, for short) basically serves the same function for a neighborhood that the city council would for a local government. It makes decisions about things that don’t matter, like acceptable lawn height and appropriate sprinkler setups, to maintain a bureaucratized uniformity for the residents. It’s not an ideal way to spend my days, but at least it gives me something to focus my time and energy on that isn’t Chad. The downside is that it’s mostly just bored housewives who like to pretend that they are contributing to something meaningful. If I weren’t so wrapped up in it myself, I’d call the whole thing pathetic. The best thing is that because Stan thinks I’m working from home, he’s not suspicious about my involvement with the HOA, which is good because it’s been kind of unbearable lately, and I’ve enjoyed talking through some of the bullshit with him. In fact, it figures prominently in tonight’s dinner conversation.

“What about you?” he asks after telling me about the unit on Reconstruction that he’s starting tomorrow to kick off the last leg of the semester. “Anything exciting going on with work?”

“Oh, you know,” I say between bites of chicken piccata. “Just more of the same. I think McGregor’s about to dump some more work from the Technocity contract on me.”

Stan nods, very familiar with my former boss’ tendency to dump other people’s work on me, as well as with this particular geospatial mapping software contract from Technocity Enterprises, a company I made up one night on the spot while discussing the job I no longer had. For the sake of simplicity, most of my new assignments have something to do with Technocity and one of their many equally fabricated product offerings.

“I’ll have to break around 3:30 tomorrow, though,” I add.

“HOA?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And I’m at my wit’s end with Daphne.”

Unlike the good people at Technocity Enterprises, Daphne is a real person. Among her best qualities, she is rich, entitled, and loud. She is married to the mayor’s cousin but not-so-secretly fucking her Chilean gardener. Our clichéd extramarital affairs notwithstanding, Daphne and I could not be more different, and, would it not most definitely result in my going to prison, I would stab Daphne with an ice pick because she is kind of a cunt.

“God, that bitch,” Stan says, taking a swig of his chardonnay. “I still can’t believe she tried to get us kicked out of the neighborhood.”

It wasn’t because we’re gay, if that’s what you’re thinking. One of our neighborhood’s biggest selling points is that it is zoned for the best public schools in the city—not to mention that it’s only a few miles from the prestigious Bennington Academy, where Stan teaches. Daphne was not shy in vocalizing her opinion that a couple without children should not be “wasting” a spot in this neighborhood when there are so many otherwise “deserving” families on the waiting list. How she ever thought she would get anywhere with this line of rabble-rousing is beyond me, and to no one’s surprise, her petition to start requiring all prospective tenants to have children went nowhere. What it did lead to, though, was my and Stan’s first fight as newly settled Alabamians.

“What do you mean, you _never_ want kids?” he asked one night while we were strolling around the neighborhood lake. “How is that even possible?”

“I told you years ago that I never want kids.”

He rolled his eyes. “We were in college, Kyle. No one wants kids in college. I figured you’d grow out of that once we became, you know, adults. We’re not getting any younger. In less than five years, we’ll be thirty.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want kids! We’re getting old. Why would I want to waste the prime of my adulthood taking care of other people when I could be enjoying my own life?”

“So you never want kids, like never ever? What about right before we got married? When I mentioned that I might want kids after we settled down, you shrugged and said the idea might be growing on you.”

“I’m sorry, Stan, but I just don’t think I’m ready. Will I want kids when I’m 35? Maybe. I don’t know. But probably not. At least, that’s where I am with it now. I’m sorry we don’t feel the same way about this.”

The rest of the walk was silent.                                                  

That was months ago. Since then, he has dropped a few hints, lest I forget that he wants us to be fathers. _What do you think of the name Jack?_ he asked me one day out of the blue. I told him that as long as it was preceded by the word _lumber_ , then I was all for it. I laughed, but he did not.

These days, in the grand scheme of things, our difference in opinion regarding children seems like a small malfunctioning cog in the machine that is our possibly doomed marriage. Sometimes I am reminded that it is still an issue hanging over us that neither of us wants to tackle head-on. The last time was a couple of weeks ago, while Stan was massaging my head. One of his friends in college was a part-time hairdresser, and among other things, he picked up some tips from her on how to give amazing scalp massages.

“I think this new shampoo is worse than the last one,” he said as he rubbed the top of my skull through my frizzy locks. “Your hair’s more brittle than usual.”

I leaned back and kissed him. “That’s just because I’m getting old.”

He smiled. “My old man.”

“Hey, asshole. You’re a few months older than me.”

“Wouldn’t be able to tell by my beautiful young hair,” he said, wrapping his arms around my torso and squeezing me close to him. Normally, this would turn me on a little bit, but then he added: “If we go for _in vitro_ , I guess that means I should be the stud.”

He meant it as a harmless joke, but it really freaked me out at the time. How could we be at a point where we were casually joking about parenthood? Children are a serious topic, a topic that I want nothing to do with. This was the first time I remember thinking that this whole “not wanting kids” thing might be a real problem.

At the time, I would have given anything to have someone—besides Stan—to talk to about this stuff. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I don’t have a lot of friends. There’s Chad, but he’s out of the question. For one, he is incredibly jealous of Stan, and rightfully so since he is both “the man on the side” and someone with whom I have zero emotional connection. He is also, despite his advanced degrees in engineering, something of a dimwit and would likely be unable to offer anything resembling intelligent, substantive advice on matters of human relations. Knowing my frustration with not having a confidante, the gods apparently decided to wickedly shit on me even more, for not even a week later, a ghost from my former life suddenly reappeared in the least likely of places: the produce section of my neighborhood grocery store, mulling over oranges. When she saw me, her eyes became saucers.

“Kyle?!” she squealed from the citrus bin.

When I looked up, there she was, real as anything: Wendy fucking Testaburger.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, abandoning her oranges as she waltzed over.

I told her about my great job offer in Huntsville and about how Stan was really making a go of it at Bennington. I carefully chose my words so as neither to lie nor tell the truth. Unfortunately, Wendy is quite bright and immediately asked the obvious.

“Well, why are you grocery shopping at 2:30 on a Wednesday?”

“My schedule is flexible and allows me to work from home a lot of the time.” Lie #1.

In an effort to deflect attention away from my personal life, I asked what the hell _she_ was doing here in Alabama. She told me that she’s working in the city on a six-month contract as an astrophysicist. When I asked whether all of her work is contract-based, she said that most of it is but that she doesn’t mind because it gives her the chance to travel the country and do more public speaking. Apparently she’s written a book… because of course she has.

“I may be an astrophysicist by day, but my real passion is getting girls excited about science and engineering. Historically, women are, and continue to be, underrepresented in tech fields, and I want to show today’s young girls that being a rocket scientist can be fun and that they can be just as good at that stuff as the boys.”

I listened to her drone on for hours—or, at least it felt like hours. She told me all about her novel, which was apparently an unexpected smash hit in niche literary circles. (“I’m not saying that it was almost shortlisted for the Baileys Prize, but I’m also not saying that it wasn’t!”) Inevitably, the tables turned back to me, and I told her about my job and McGregor and Technocity because why not. I told her about our upcoming Pensacola trip. I told her more about Bennington and Stan’s coaching gig and how much he seems to be enjoying it there. When the conversation organically lapsed, Wendy suggested that we hang out sometime soon. In a moment of stupidity, I reflexively invited her over for dinner. She whipped out her calendar, and damnit if we didn’t set a date right there in the fucking store, with the oranges and celery and everyone watching.

That was just before spring break. Dinner is tomorrow. Oy.


	4. Stan - A Long Day Closes

It feels heavenly when I unload in his mouth. It was one hell of a first day back at school after spring break, and with all that happened, I really needed to get my rocks off.

“Thanks, babe,” I say, leaning down to kiss him, the taste of my semen lingering on his tongue. Kyle has always been good about knowing when I need a blowjob. Last week on vacation was the first time he’d given me one in forever, and it felt so fucking good. He almost seemed embarrassed that it had been so long.

Sex is my favorite way to blow off steam, and getting a blowjob is my preferred method of loosening up. It helps that Kyle really loves sucking cock and doesn’t mind me not reciprocating. I mean, blowing a guy is fine, but it’s not really my thing. I’m more of an ass man, and Kyle has a nice ass. Mmm… the thought almost makes me horny again.

“Rough day?” he asks, wiping his mouth and hopping up on the bed beside me.

“Yeah,” I say, collapsing on top of him in a bear hug. “You always can tell.”

He pushes me off of him and scoots behind me in a spooning position. “What happened?” he asks.

I close my eyes and scoot backwards. “It started in first period,” I say, surrendering to the embrace of his wiry, hairy arms. “Ten minutes into class, some kid jumps up and says he feels sick. He has one foot out the door when he loses it and hurls. It goes in the trash can, in the hallway, on my fucking door. The whole class was a wash after that.”

“Then things got better?” Kyle asks, nibbling at my ear.

“Well, Dr. Crabtree popped in ten minutes before the end of my planning period. Wanted to talk to me about a new class he wants me to teach next year.”

“What kind of class?” he asks, sitting up and looking mildly intrigued.

“Revisionist history. He wants me to develop and pilot it with a class of eighth graders next year.”

“Dude, that’s fucking awesome,” my husband says, leaning down to kiss me.

“I don’t know,” I say, pulling away from the kiss after a few seconds. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

“But clearly he trusts you if he’s asking you to do this. That’s huge, Stan.”

I shrug. Maybe it is, but it still makes me nervous as hell. Anyway, that’s not even the craziest thing that happened today. Fifteen minutes after school was out, I was getting ready for tomorrow’s classes when my enigmatic star student slowly materialized in the doorway.

“Action Jackson,” I greeted him. “Where’s your dad?”

“Running late,” he murmured, lingering in the door.

“You wanna wait in here? I don’t mind.”

He silently shuffled in and plopped down in his usual desk, across the room from mine. We sat in near silence for five minutes, me responding to email and the quiet echoes of my classical Pandora station bouncing around the room. When I closed my laptop, I noticed him staring intently at me. He almost looked nervous. I met his gaze and did not look away; he didn’t, either.

“Coach Marsh, can I talk to you about something… private?” he finally asked.

“Of course,” I told him. I walked over, leaning against a desk a few feet from him.

He told me that he doesn’t really have anyone else he can talk to about this, that his dad might be weird and that he’s not sure how his friends would react if he told them. Before he could say it, I knew what was coming. I had suspected it about him for quite some time now. I suspected it when he presented his research paper on Pelé’s importance to the history of sports. I suspected it when I saw his gaze linger on a teammate one afternoon during practice. I suspected it the first time he opened his mouth in my class; I could sense how confident he was in himself but also how very unsure. What I didn’t suspect was that I would be the first person he told or that he would even come out to me at all. Because of that, I was completely caught off guard when he told me, and my mind began swimming in questions. _Would his father disown him if he came out to him? Would the other kids pick on him? Why did he come out to me? Does he know that_ I’m _gay?_

You should know that I’m not out at school. Most gay teachers aren’t. It’s just easier not to be until you have a better sense of your environment—don’t ask, don’t tell, and all that. None of my coworkers know yet, nor does Dr. Crabtree, the head of school. I wear a wedding ring, but no one’s ever asked about my wife. One time a couple of students asked me if I was married. I showed them my ring, and they never said anything again. Things are easier when people assume there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on. My own life has taught me that this is true, and now I know that Jackson’s has, as well.

The first thing that came out of my mouth after he told me was that I’m glad he felt comfortable enough to do so. That’s one of the things you’re supposed to say, and this case, I meant every word of it. I asked him questions to keep him talking. I wanted him to know that he was safe there and that he could tell me as much as he wanted. I asked him how long he’s known and whether he plans to tell anyone else anytime soon. I asked if he has a crush on anyone at school. Finally—I had to know—I asked why he chose to come out to me first.

He said that I’m the only adult who ever listens to what he has to say. That broke my heart but also made me very proud. Soon enough his dad texted him to let him know that he’d arrived to pick him up. Jackson skittishly left my room, clearly nervous but relieved.

I relay all of this to Kyle as his limp dick rests against my ass and his arms bend gently into me. I can tell that he doesn’t know what to say. Teenagers are no longer part of Kyle’s world. Ever since he entered the realm of adulthood, he’s had trouble seeing things through the eyes of people outside his own age range. I also think a small part of it is that he doesn’t like me talking about my students because it reminds him that I want kids and he doesn’t. I wish he wasn’t so hung up on it.

“How did it make you feel?” he finally asks, sitting up on his elbows and looking down at me.

“Glad that he trusted me enough to tell me, but also a little worried, I guess.”

“Why worried?”

“I just don’t want him to freak out and shut down. If I’m really the only adult he feels like he can talk to, then I hope he doesn’t get spooked, you know?”

Kyle nods and slides off the bed. He grabs his balled-up boxers from the floor and slips into them. He brings me my briefs and kisses me.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “Just keep showing him that you’re someone he can trust. That’s all you can do. Now,” he says, pulling me to my feet and into an embrace, “we should probably get started on dinner. Wendy will be here at seven.”

* * *

 

 “Is this a béchamel sauce?” Wendy asks as she takes another bite.

“Not far off,” Kyle replies, completely devoid of condescension. “It’s a mornay, which is basically a béchamel plus cheese.”

“I thought I tasted parmesan,” she adds, clearly analyzing the bite.

“And gruyere,” he beams.

Knock on wood, the dinner is going much better than I expected. Ever since Kyle mentioned that Wendy is in town, I’ve been dreading tonight. When he told me about his run-in with her at the supermarket, he seemed agitated at himself for inviting her over, and I had assumed their interactions tonight would be awkward and tense. Luckily, it looks like I was wrong.

Personally, I was excited to hear that Wendy is in Huntsville for a while. I hadn’t seen her in years or even spoken to her in several months. Besides Kyle, she was my best friend in high school, and even though we rarely saw each other once we went away to different colleges, we still kept in touch on Facebook and hung out when we were back in South Park for the holidays. Back when she was with Kenny, the four of us would double-date, and it was awesome. Then, when they split, it was awkward for all of us. As close as Wendy and I were, Kenny and Kyle gave us a run for our money. I always thought it was weird that Kenny turned into Kyle’s pervy little confidante, but it’s so hard for Kyle to find friends that I don’t think he wanted to lose one as loyal or awesome as Kenny. When he and Wendy broke up, though, we started seeing Kenny a lot less, and over time, he and Kyle naturally grew apart. That was near the end of senior year, and by the time we started college in the fall, Kyle was clingier with me than he had ever been before. The fact that we were roommates was both a blessing (unlimited sex around the clock) and a curse (unlimited boyfriend around the clock).

“So how is it teaching at the most prestigious private school in the state?” Wendy asks, snapping me out of my meandering train of thought. “Kyle tells me that it’s nothing like the public schools in Denver.”

“It is different,” I say, rejoining the conversation and swigging some sauvignon blanc. I notice that all three of us have finished eating. I tell her how the academic focus is different where I am now, how it is more challenging but also more student-focused, and I like that. I tell her that in some areas I have increased responsibilities and that in others I have fewer, but that overall I enjoy it much more, despite having taken a pay cut for this job.

“Well, I’m sure Kyle does well enough in software that you wouldn’t even have to work if you didn’t want to,” she adds.

Kyle blushes at that and seems a little uncomfortable. “Oh, please,” he says, “Stan’s not some 1950s housewife. He has grander ambitions than sitting around and doing my laundry.”

She nods, polishing off her second glass and pouring herself what’s left in the bottle. Kyle follows her lead, uncorking a nearly full, “family-sized” bottle of chardonnay and helping himself to a liberal third glass.

“It’s probably good that you two both work now,” Wendy adds. “That way, when you have kids, maybe one of you can take some time off when they’re young.”

A fog of awkwardness quickly washes over the room, and Wendy realizes she’s said the wrong thing. Kyle nearly downs half of his glass, and I help myself to more, as well. After a minute, it looks like I’m the only one who can save the conversation. I tell Wendy more about work. I tell her about Dr. Crabtree asking me to teach a new class in the fall.

“Not just that,” Kyle chimes in, tipsily. “He asked Stan to do it because he read his master’s thesis and thought he was brilliant.”

“What was your thesis about?” Wendy asks, perking up.

I glare at Kyle. I hate patting myself on the back like this. “It was on the ethics of teaching revisionist history,” I reply.

“That’s fascinating,” she says.

“Stan minored in philosophy as an undergrad,” Kyle unnecessarily adds, smiling loudly at both of us.

“I think you’ve had enough, babe,” I say.

He scoffs. “Oh, please. No more than either of you. I can handle my alcohol just fine, thank you,” he says, waving his fork angrily in my direction. My audible laugh almost comes involuntarily. Kyle is not amused by it, but it causes Wendy to snort.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, covering her mouth with her napkin to hide her grin. “We’re laughing _with_ you, Kyle.”

“That’s a cliché,” he says, standing and stumbling. “And it’s incredibly condescending. You two can handle the dishes,” he adds, marching out of the room.

“Where are you going?” I shout after him.

“Bed,” he replies, loudly and calmly.

We wait a few minutes for him to come back, but he never does.

“I’m really embarrassed,” Wendy says.

I shake my head. “Don’t bother. He really can’t handle his alcohol. That hasn’t changed since we were kids.”

“Well, I feel stupid for it, anyway.”

“You shouldn’t,” I say, standing and gathering an arm full of dishes. “Anyway, he’s been weird lately.”

“How do you mean?” she asks, recorking the chardonnay and following me into the kitchen.

“He seems really stressed,” I tell her, fetching the rest of the dishes. I return to the kitchen, and she fills a sink with warm water. We set up an assembly line, her washing, me drying. She allows me to be silent as I gather my words. She knows that I’m trying to piece it all together. She’s always understood me like that.

“At first I just thought it was work,” I finally say, mopping up every bit of wet from a butter knife. “But lately I’ve suspected that there’s something else.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he has this thing, this nervous tic.”

“Like your red ears?”

“Exactly! But Kyle’s is different. He likes to eat jelly beans. Sometimes he’ll grab a whole handful and munch on them one by one. Usually, he doesn’t care what flavor it is; he’ll eat anything. But sometimes he picks around the dark ones. Whenever he’s nervous about something, he’ll toss the licorice and chocolate and coffee back into the jar. I don’t even think he realizes that he does it.”

“Stan, that’s ridiculous,” she says.

“No, I’m serious. I figured it out a few months ago. Kyle’s usually pretty good at keeping secrets, and for my birthday last year, he got me this signed, limited edition book I’d been wanting. He was so excited about it, but it was a surprise, and this wasn’t long after we decided that we weren’t going to do birthday gifts anymore. So anytime I talked about my birthday, he’d start picking around the jelly beans, almost like he was trying to give his mind something else to focus on. I think it’s because he was hiding something and didn’t want to be caught.”

“So you think he’s hiding something now?”

I take a deep breath. It’s the first time I have openly acknowledged my suspicions about this to another person. I can’t think of how to beat around the bush, so I just say it.

“I think he might be having an affair.”

Her eyes go wide, and I interrupt before she can say anything.

“Before our trip last week, we hadn’t had sex in weeks. I know that lots of couples go through dry spells, but _we_ don’t. I mean, Kyle doesn’t. He’s horny 24/7. We used to fuck so much I thought he was a sex addict. We’d have so much sex that he’d beg me for more, and I couldn’t give it to him because I was spent. There’s no way he hasn’t cheated on me. Someone can’t go from being that sex-craved one day to chaste the next. He has to be getting it from somebody else.”

Wendy shakes her head. “But you can’t know that for sure. Didn’t you say you’ve been sleeping together since your trip?”

“Yeah, but he did it again today, the jelly bean thing. It must still be going on. He’s cheating on me.”

I realize that the cheap wine compelled me to tell her all this, and part of me regrets it. Wendy just wanted a nice evening of catching up, and now I’ve pulled her into this shit. I’m not even positive that I believe that he’s cheating, but it feels good to say it, to get it out in the open. I look at Wendy, and she doesn’t seem annoyed or angry. Instead, she is sympathetic. She is a good friend. I rest my head on her shoulder.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” I whisper. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says, hugging me.

We retire to the sofa in the living room, where she tells me about her job and her book. But mostly she just listens. She listens to me talk about work and how I’m enjoying teaching and coaching. I tell her about my teams and my classes and, of course, about Jackson. And after we’ve said all there is to say, she tells me how much she enjoyed tonight and how she looks forward to hanging out more while she’s in Huntsville. Once she’s gone, I notice I have a missed call and listen to the voicemail.

_This message is for Stanley Marsh_ , a familiar voice begins. _This is General Douchemuffin with the state lottery, informing you that YOU are the winner of this month’s jackpot. Actually, your state is so shitty that it doesn’t even have a lottery. Why do you live in Alabama, anyway, dude? Look, my girlfriend and I just split up, and I dropped her ass in Little Rock. Long story. The good news is that I’m on a road trip and headed your way. I tried to call Kyle, but he didn’t answer, either, so I can only assume you two are trying to make babies right now. When you’re done with your buttloving, give me a call. I was hoping I could crash at your place for a day or two while I get some shit figured out. Let me know._

I shake my head at this strange end to an eventful day. Never in a million years would I have expected a call from Kenny McCormick.


End file.
